


Not Cute

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bearded Mycroft Holmes, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 17:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Something is not right in the Lestrade-Holmes household.





	Not Cute

The at home glasses were good. They made him look handsome and relaxed; unlike his work glasses that made him look like an arse. Which was probably the reason he wore them.

The beard was better. After weeks of little contact, Mycroft had returned from an alleged trip to Canada looking like he had spent the time they were apart in the wilderness, communing with nature, instead of sitting in endless, airless meetings with a bunch of suits. Well, not exactly. The beard was a Mycroft beard and too neat to really fit the image, but the idea of Mycroft in some high-tech outdoor gear with his sleeves rolled up, doing something completely un-Mycroftian like fishing, or chopping wood, or building a fence, made him hot and bothered all over again.

Greg had planned to talk to him about the situation at home right away, but then the beard and the weekend off happened, and they were too happy to disturb the peace with something that was probably nothing more than a storm in a teacup.

Their recent showers still perfumed the air. Greg let himself fall face first onto the bed – an impotent act of protest against the looming start of the new week. Tomorrow Mycroft would be back at work. He would get up in the early hours of the morning and shave his beard off, put his arsey glasses back on, and his office and the people in it would swallow him whole.

For now, he wore the good glasses as he read something on his work tablet. Greg lay close to him, pressing his face into Mycroft's pyjama-clad chest and feeling a bit rotten about what he intended to do. He fortified himself by softly rubbing his fingertips over Mycroft's bristly jaw. Mycroft sighed, but put his arm around Greg to hold him without complaint.

"We need to talk." Greg winced. "Not like that. I mean, it's nothing bad. Well, it's not too bad."

Mycroft paused, then turned his tablet off. "I'm listening."

"Okay, so. The thing is, at first it was only strange, because I thought that only happened in bad TV programmes, but I'm getting seriously annoyed now. I don't want to make a fuss or anything, but maybe you could ask your staff to stop threatening me. It's not cute."

"What do you mean 'threaten'? Threaten how?"

"You know, that whole what will happen to me, if I ever hurt you bollocks. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it's getting more graphic and that creeps me out a bit, to be honest."

" _Who_ is threatening you?"

"Er, let's see. . . two of your drivers, one guy from security, the woman who usually brings the groceries, and both the cleaners, actually.

Mycroft stared at him.

"Don't get me wrong. It's _nice_ that they're so loyal to you – in a busybody, stalkerish kind of way, I guess – but this is a bit much. I mean, aside from the fact that you're a grown man on the wrong side of forty – soon to be on the wrong side of fifty – and that you can take care of yourself, and that you have me to help you with that. And that you have more economic, political and military power than the vast majority of people in this country. Where was I? Oh, yeah, they're your sodding employees. Your private life is none of their business, and my private life is even less their business. I haven't given anyone any reason to consider me a threat to you, and I'm reaching the point where I'd like them to piss off."

"Why on earth didn't you tell me?" Mycroft exclaimed, getting dangerously close to the kind of tone he often used with Sherlock.

"I'm telling you now. Okay, look. I'm not trying to get anyone fired or deported, or whatever it is you do, when you want to get rid of someone. So don't go on a rampage on my account, all right? Maybe you could just make it clear that I'm in your house and in your life because you want me to be, and not because I somehow tricked you into it."

Mycroft froze. For a long moment he disappeared in his own head. Greg waited.

"Thank you for telling me," Mycroft said eventually in a much calmer voice. "I'll handle it."

Greg, realising what was about to happen, held onto him. "Hey, no. You don't have to handle it tonight. There'll be plenty of time for that next week. "Come here."

Mycroft's face eloquently translated his disapproval, but he placed his tablet and his glasses on the bedside table, and turned his light off nonetheless. Greg drew him down into a gentle kiss. His thumbs kept stroking Mycroft's cheeks until he pulled back with a chuckle.

"Should I be worried that my naked face doesn't prompt such a response?"

Greg flushed. "No. It's just a nice change of pace, that's all. You like seeing me in a fancy suit, right?"

"I do. I like seeing you out of it as well."

"See? It's like that. It just. . . it—"

"Yes?"

"It makes you look like you're mine."

Mycroft cupped his face and brought their foreheads together. "I'm always yours."

His lips tingled from the way Mycroft's mouth kept brushing against his own. He leaned up for a proper kiss, but Mycroft moved out of reach.

"I think you should say goodbye properly."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely." His fingers trailed down Greg's neck and came to a halt on his chest. "This part of you and this part." The memory of Mycroft's beard catching in his chest hair flashed before his eyes. "And this part." His fingers wandered further over Greg's stomach and, in a ticklishly light stroke, over his increasingly interested cock.

"And this part," Mycroft continued, moving his hand to the inside of Greg's thigh, "especially."

* * *

Greg felt as though he'd have to pry his eyes open with a crowbar, when his alarm blared the next morning. Why was it that after an amazing weekend Monday mornings were so much harder instead of easier? It didn't make any damn sense.

He had enough of the day, before it even started. The other side of the bed was empty and cold. Mycroft's personal things had been removed from the bedside table. Greg knew that they would be lying neatly in the drawer, if he chose to open it, but it was a disheartening sight anyway.

He rubbed his face roughly, grumbling about stupid London, stupid criminals and stupid jobs under his breath. Moving listlessly, he put on fresh boxers and checked his phone.

He zoned out for a little while as he turned on the hot water at the left washbasin. Steam rose, fogging up the mirror. He always forgot that one didn't have to let the water run at full blast for five minutes before it turned slightly less chilly in Mycroft's house. He shook himself and adjusted the temperature.

His eyes were drawn to the mirror. A simple drawing of an angry face had appeared in the steam on the surface. Greg paused. He couldn't recall exactly all the things he had done since leaving the bed. Grumbling once more about stupid coppers who were stupid enough to go to their stupid jobs, he wiped the face away with his hand.

One by one, his clothes covered all the places on his body that were pleasantly sensitive from beard burn. Mycroft, considerate as ever, had restrained himself to areas below the collar. Greg reminded himself that Mycroft was back now. He wouldn't be gone for weeks this time, merely hours.

He felt a little less crabby when he went down to the kitchen for breakfast.

Greg stopped short in the doorway and blinked. Aside from the pot of Mycroft's porridge that was still on the stove, a meal was laid out for him. A boiled egg with the top of its shell removed sat innocently in an eggcup, the texture of the yolk perfect for toast soldiers. But instead of thin, even strips the roasted bread was cut into letters spelling out T A T T L E T A L E.

The edges were smooth, the shapes precise. They must have been cut with something much sharper than a normal kitchen knife. Greg reached out to take a piece. He wasn't going to be intimidated by a few bits of toast. He stopped, and thought better of it.

He went over to the stove and grabbed a bowl, while contemplating the different toppings on offer. He raised the lid from the pot and looked inside. It looked like perfectly normal porridge. He put the lid back on the pot and left his bowl on the counter. He could get breakfast on his way to work, and he could talk to Mycroft in the evening. Nothing to worry about.

He left the kitchen and went straight to the hall to put on his coat. Gathering his things, he froze.

With long, decisive steps, he marched back into the kitchen and took a few photos of the culinary display. On his way out, he let the front door slam shut behind him.

As usual, he didn't have his key for the mail on him. He reached into the slot of the mailbox. Pain exploded in his hand. He cried out, panicked and tried pulling his hand back out, hurting himself more in the process. The few seconds it took to get his hand out of the mailbox felt like minutes.

His fingers were caught in some kind of trap for mice or rats. It took more agonizing seconds to get the trap open with his badly shaking hands. He threw the thing as far away from him as he could and stumbled a few steps back.

Panting, he sank down on the front steps, cradling his aching, bleeding fingers to his chest.


End file.
